


Boltwin

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-22
Updated: 2011-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-26 10:07:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a challenge/prompt.  Roose Bolton and Tywin Lannister slash.</p><p>Takes place during ACOK while Lannister forces are ensconced at Harrenhall. This is a bit AU. How does Roose sneak off to Harrenhall when Tywin is there? A wizard did it.</p><p>Tywin wants a hired blade. Roose wants a legit heir. It’s good to want things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boltwin

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into English available: [Болтвин](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6284932) by [Elvira_faery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvira_faery/pseuds/Elvira_faery)



Lord Tywin’s rooms were dimly-lit, with a single candle flame to guard against the darkness. He sat at a massive desk, crowded with maps disfigured by battle patterns and parchments weighted with small stones, letters, plots, plans. His attention was wholly-captivated by a missive from the north, the handwriting meticulously even, the pink wax that had sealed it a perfect circle. It was all order and perfection, in an almost-successful attempt to mask the unpleasant request that it contained.

_…after the untimely death of my only legitimate son, Domeric, I find it necessary, in order to assure the future of House Bolton, to request that the Crown legitimize my surviving natural son, Ramsay Snow…_

_…pledge my loyalty and swear fielty to Houses Baratheon and Lannister and all the provinces thereof, in most humble gratitude…_

He rolled up the letter, fastening it crisply with a string, and set it down in front of him. Tywin did not trust Roose Bolton, nor his “natural son,” who was more of a liability than anything, but he was a means to an end, a cog in a finely-crafted machine that had been set in motion by Lannister handiwork. He would speak to him. He would speak to him this very evening.

Tywin remembered the last time that he’d seen Bolton, ironically at the Harrenhall Tourney that had sparked a war. He’d attended with his wife and legitimate son, and now both were dead, dust perhaps by now. _We have that in common, at least_ , Tywin thought, remembering Lady Bolton’s cold expression and quiet mannerisms, and how different they had been from his Joanna’s. But that was neither here nor there. He had nothing personally against the man, but the rumors about his house were decidedly unsavory, and the rumors that drifted down from the North were unpleasant to say the least. However, it was a necessary alliance. He had a good use for Bolton, and it would keep his hands fairly clean if things went wrong.

A few hours later, a page announced Lord Bolton of the Dreadfort, and escorted him into Tywin’s rooms. He was far from prepossessing; nor was he monstrous as the gossip said. Still, there was something subtly unsettling about him. He could not tell what it was, but something was _wrong_. “Lord Tywin, I thank you for seeing me, and at such a late hour.” Tywin could barely hear the man, but he gestured for him to sit.

“It seems, Lord Bolton, that we are the position to offer each other a mutual service. You require an heir, and I require a sword.”

“A sword?” Bolton looked at him curiously. “I thought to bring you an army.”

“An army will not do.” Tywin waved a dismissive hand across the map between them, showing his more-than-sufficient forces. “I need someone without qualms. There is an unpleasant task at hand, although it will be well-worth your while to consider it.”

“Go on.” He listened intently as Tywin elaborated on the ruse and the means, appearing completely disinterested, even at the end.

“What you are suggesting, of course, is high treason. That is, if it backfires.”

“And it will not backfire,” Tywin said firmly. “I will see to that. You will play your part, and will earn your reward.”

“Very well,” Lord Bolton replied. “You shall see it done.”

“However, I think to assure myself of your complicity in any way that I can. After all, in this, you are a turncloak to your sworn king, are you not?” Tywin looked hard at him.

“What can I do to prove my loyalty? I would not have the Young Wolf,” and here he gave a cold laugh, “learn of our conversation, so whatever you have in mind must be done behind closed doors.”

 _He is a discreet man, a careful man_ , thought Tywin. “You can start by bending the knee.”

“Of course, but did my letter not suffice? I shall recognize your grandson as the true King of Westeros, do not doubt.”

“It is not enough for me, Lord Bolton. I want to see it done here and now. Get on the floor in front of me. I am, after all, the closest person to him that _you_ will encounter.”

He did so without complaint, kneeling on the cold stones in front of his new liege lord. Bolton stared expectantly, gazing up at Tywin with those unnervingly pale eyes. He did not shy away from the other’s cold glare, and merely waited patiently for instruction.

“There is nothing that you would not do to see this Ramsay’s inheritance assured,” he said coldly, acknowledging the other man’s silent nod. “No task too unpleasant, is there?” He had a sudden urge to humiliate this man, although it went against his better judgment.

“I find that I have no other choice. Such desperate measures make strange bedfellows, do they not, Lord Tywin?”

“In more ways than you can imagine, Lord Bolton.” He put a hand on Bolton’s shoulder, drawing him closer, and suddenly, understanding dawned on the man’s face, gradually.

“You would have me service you,” Bolton said softly, a slight smile on his face. “Forgive me, Lord Tywin. I did not realize that you had such…proclivities.”

Tywin merely glared at him. Lord Bolton paid no mind, but did not take his eyes from Tywin’s face as he unlaced his breeches and reached for his cock, which lay flaccid. A smirk grew on his face as he stroked the other man’s shaft, his fingers practiced, his gestures restrained. Tywin felt no arousal at this man’s touch; he’d expected his hands to be as cold and oily as his personality, but they were dry and surprisingly warm. And insistent, which was his undoing. Against his wishes, he began to grow hard, despite his repulsion at the act, and the man in front of him.

No one had touched him like this since Joanna had died. It was alien, almost. It would be easy to close his eyes and forget where he was, but Tywin refused to weaken, refused to enjoy the act, and did not break his gaze. It was pleasant though, he had to admit, being serviced in such a way, even if it came in such a manner. It was the idea, the dynamic behind this, that pleased him so. When Bolton stopped, he had the urge to strike him, but restrained himself, as the other man had only paused to take him in his mouth, tongue stroking him roughly, then moving his tongue to the tip, hands on his thighs, then moving inward, slowly, teasingly, cupping his balls, squeezing them slightly.

When he came, Bolton took it in without complaint, and Tywin thought immediately of a whore. He was a bit abashed at such a vulgar comparison, but it had come so easily to the other man, that it did not seem entirely inappropriate. Bolton’s hands drew back, he straightened, still on his knees, and looked up expectantly. “Will there be anything else, my lord? I am entirely at your disposal. In every way.”

Tywin shook his head, a sneer breaking through his resolve. “We are through, I think.” He then looked hard at Roose Bolton. “Will you take some advice, Bolton?”

Lord Bolton simply stared at him with that calm, almost disturbing expression. “Yes, my lord. I am at your command.” His voice was nothing but a whisper, and there was not even a hint of malice on his face. He was frightening all the same.

“Take another wife, and soon. Get some sons on her, and you won’t have to worry about that mad dog of a bastard when he eventually ends with a knife in his back.”

“Wise council, my lord. I shall think on that, do not doubt.”

“Then we are finished. You may go.”

Lord Bolton left the room silently, and Tywin locked it as soon as his footsteps had receded. He suppressed the urge to vomit at what he’d done, forcing back the bile. Had it been another man, he might have been able to forget it, but Bolton had seemed to almost expect it, to enjoy it, and that was what had troubled him so. How far would he go to have his way?

It was something best not thought of. He sat at the table, staring at the maps, but dawn broke before he was able to draw his mind away from such unpleasant things.


End file.
